


Gloomy Sunday

by Petrichor1110



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:12:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petrichor1110/pseuds/Petrichor1110
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's thoughts. Post-fall. Warnings: Suicide, main character death, dark thoughts. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gloomy Sunday

"Come to me." You said, you were glowing, a white light filled the space between us. I tried to move my feet forward, but they wouldn't move. I pulled, attempting to force my feet from the ground, but I couldn't, I couldn't do it.

"I can't. Sherlock! I can't." I screamed at you, straining my voice.

"John. Please." You called, moving further away. You stretched out your hand, holding it out for me, like a life line. You were still too far, I reached, but you were so far.

"Goodbye, John." That was all you said, and then you were gone. There was nothing but darkness as the light faded with you. And then I was alone in the darkness, you left me alone. I called out to you, even though I knew you were gone.

"Please. Please, come back." I cried. You couldn't hear me, but I still tried. I tried to reach you one way or another. Why would you leave me? You were supposed to love me, that's what you had said. You told me you loved me.

My world was falling apart around me. The room was shaking, and bits were falling from the ceiling. It was caving in. I tried to brace myself against the wall or the floor, but there was nothing. I pressed my hand to the darkness but it was just air. I curled up on the floor but when I went to hold my feet to the ground, there was nothing there. How could I be sitting on air, it didn't make sense, even with my fear taking hold, I could realize something wasn't right.

"John." I heard you call for me. I could feel your hands on my shoulder but you weren't there it was just more darkness, darkness that threatened to swallow me whole. I closed my eyes, squeezing them tightly. Suddenly I could feel a weight on my chest, holing me down. I couldn't breathe. It was like someone was sitting on me, I...I...

My eyes were open, but instead of darkness surrounding me, it was you. Your arms wrapped around me. You were here. Sitting on our bed. Holding me. The sunlight, pale as it filtered in through the curtains, bounced off your face. But you were here.

"Sherlock? " I breathed, hoping this was real.

"I've got you." You whispered reassuringly, your voice wavering.

"You were gone." I said, my own voice cracking. "You left and I was alone."

"No, it was a nightmare, and it's over now." You squeezed me tightly. Holding me to your chest. I didn't move, I was still. My heart racing and my hands shaking. I still couldn't breath, my lungs were too constricted. I wanted this to be real, but I knew it wasn't. I wanted to hold onto you for as long as I could. You came less often these days but when you did you brought my world crashing to a halt. You were my drug, my drug that I couldn't get anymore and this was the withdrawal. You were my addiction, the light to my shadows. But you left me. I could feel you slipping away again.

"No! Don't! Don't leave me!" I screamed. But it didn't stop you. You still disappeared. Your weight which had once held me to the real world, was gone.

I opened my eyes, I was still in the dark. The sheets were balled in my fists, I was soaked, the sweat dripping off my skin. Your side of the bed was still empty, cold and empty. This was your fault, you left me. You told me you loved me, but you left. You lied to me, you threw me to the wolves and the hidden things of my mind. You don't do that to someone you love.

I sat up and rubbed out the wrinkles and lines that had formed on my forehead. Smoothing the skin, that had now become twisted with the forces of terror. I hate you, the man who once held my heart, I hate you. I hated your dark curls, your crystal eyes, your strong hands, everything. I hate you through and through. Though mixed with all the hate, was love that was so stong that it lingered on.

I stood up, still strung out from sleep. My legs felt heavy, hard to move, like they did in the dream, but at least now they were working, somewhat. When you jumped, with the night terrors, came the tremor, and the limp. The pain seared in my leg, it felt like someone was driving a nail into the muscle with every step. It was so strong, light flashed across my vision in stars.

The flat seemed to quite without you, not that you ever spoke much but without your sighs or mumblings, and without the sound of your bow screeching across you violin, it seemed much to silent. I have missed you every single second since you jumped. Every moment since I saw you falling, I have missed you.

Right after it happened, everyone pitied me. We never told anyone about our love, but they all knew. I got cards from your friends, Molly and made me frozen meals, and Mycroft left me to grieve. In truth, that was all I ever wanted, to be left alone. Everyone reminded me of you, whether it was the constant reminiscing or the false smiles they flashed. It wasn't their fault you jumped, but I needed someone to blame it on and I didn't want to blame you. I wanted to believe you had a reason, one worth leaving me, one worth your life, but there was never any reason worth that.

I wandered into the bathroom and turned on the tap. I brace myself against the sink as I look into the mirror, I look old, I have lines across my face, and the few strands of grey I had, have multiplied hundred fold.

Being a doctor, I know what this is. I know that this isn't just grief. I know that the shadow that clouds my mind isn't just sadness or my longing for you. This is depression. This is PTSD. This is your fault. Now I am angry. I am angry at you, you kept my demons at bay and now with one choice, you have released them, you let them suck my soul and replace it with a horrible, suffocating darkness. One that I can't get out of my head.

That's when it calls to me. The same thought that has run through my head a thousand times. Would it really be so horrible if I joined you in death? Would you be angry if you knew I wanted to be with you, even knowing the cost? Or would you be relived at knowing I would do anything for you? It would be so easy. A few of the right pills, two cuts with a sharp blade, one long piece of rope, or even just walking across the street at the right time. I could be with you so quickly. It would be as easy as making a single cup of tea. This is what you have done to me. The place you have put me in. You have shut me in a closet and locked the door. There is only one way out. With no one to miss me anymore, I would have no regrets. If this is the cost to be with you, I will gladly pay it, a thousand times over.

I have made the decision. I have decided to end it all. I go to the cupboards and grab as many pills as I can find. I take the xanax and the sleeping pills, grab the vodka too, for good measure. I throw it into my arms, cradling it like a small child, the small child that will bring my release. I sit in your chair. The old leather chair I told you to get rid of, but you wouldn't listen. I sit in it, breathe it in, it still smells of you. Or at least I think it does, maybe I just want it to. I want it to smell of black coffee and dusty old books and even of the cigarettes you weren't supposed to be smoking. I look around the room, try and take it in the way you would. But I can't, I don't have your mind. You could see everything in nothing, when I look around, all I seen is you. I once asked you not to be dead but you didn't listen, you couldn't. I know it doesn't work like that, but I wish it did.

Did you know it's been a year, to the day. One year since I watched you take your life, one year since I saw you die, unable to do anything to save you. One year. Have you missed me? Do you think about me, or are you just gone? It doesn't matter, not really. Whether there is an afterlife or not, either way I will be with you. Either in the ground or in your arms.

People will ask why I did it. They will wonder why I didn't get help, but it's because I dont need help. I know what I am about to do. I know that if I die, the pain of losing you will be gone. I won't feel it anymore. No drug could take all that pain away. There are only two ways to stop the pain having you here, with me, or dying. Option one is impossible. Option two is at least manageable. Because no matter how insufferable you were alive, you were alive, and living without you is unbearable.

Your chair feels like you. Tough and worn on the outside, but with a soft and comfortable stuffing. The chair is as inanimate as you were, never moving. It's silent, the way you could be when you were working a case. It's even warm, as If you had just been sitting here, waiting for me to join you like you so often did.

That's when I took the pills, while thinking about you, beckoning me to come and sit on your lap. Thinking about you kissing my neck, whispering that you love me. I washed them away with two large swigs of the vodka that laid in the crook of my arm. Feeling the burn as they went down my throat. Once the burn left me it was just the feeling of release, it was done. There was no going back now, it was too late. I was on my way to you. That's what I thought about as I let the darkness envelope me, welcoming it for the last time. Letting it wipe away my thoughts and pain. I waited as the weight was lifted off of me, letting me breathe for what seemed like the first time since I lost you. The shadows flew in around me, holding me in the chair.

It was as easy as I thought it would be, just a handful of pills with a strong drink. Overdose, that's what my cause of death will be, no mystery. That's how I thought you would go, either accidentally or on purpose, I never thought you would jump, not in million years.

The last thing I said was, I love you. That was all, short, simple, and classic last words. And then I was gone, my eyes fluttered close for the last time. That was all there was to it, it didn't hurt, it was like falling asleep, because really that was what I was doing. Just like you, with out so much as a goodbye.

\-------------------------------------

I could feel myself rising from the dark, but not into death, back into life. No this was wrong. I am dying. I killed myself.

I don't want to live! I screamed into my own mind, willing my body to let go. I'm ready, I know I am. I have done the deed, so why am I being brought back. I could hear voices around me but all muffled to the point the may as well have been white noise. I could feel hand on my bare flesh, cold against the fire that raged under my skin. Someone was pulling me from your chair, my last piece of you, and I couldn't even stop them. I wanted to yell at them, tell them to let me die in peace, tell them to let be go back to death as a friend instead of a foe, but I couldn't move, I couldn't speak, all I could do was let whatever was happening, happen. And despite my silent pleas, the kept on, doing what I knew they would. They were trying to save me.

To be truthful, if I was in their place, I would be doing the same. Doing everything I could to save the poor lost soul in front of me. But I was not to be pitied, I was to be envied. I was headed to your welcoming arms. I was finally at peace. Why couldn't they accept that?

The voices that floated above me started to become clearer, but not by much. Only allowing me snippets of what was going on.

"Help him!"

"Go call..."

"Oh god!" One of the voices said, it was familiar but it didn't sound right, it sounded muffled, like it was coming from underwater. "What have you done!?" The voice cried.

After that I was plunged back into the the abyss which was now, temporarily, my home. It was comfortable waiting. It wasn't rushed like a line up at a bank or frustrating like traffic, this was restful, like waiting for the sun to rise on a new day. Suddenly my surroundings changed, they were bright. Too bright, blindingly so, harsh on my eyes. Then there was more noise. Sounds I could recognize instantly, even in this state. The buzzing, beeping, rushing, shouting, crying. This was a hospital.

No! No! No! I bellowed to myself. I wanted to cry, I was so close to you, but with every step I took you moved further and further away.

That was it, then I was fed back to the blackness. In such a short time the darkness had become my friend, it was comforting. It was peace where my life had none, it was easy. No pain, no hurt, no thoughts. My body felt limp and light as if I weighed nothing at all, as if I was floating effortlessly. I heard rushed noises around me, moving past me, like a stream over river stones.

I waited and hoped for everything to disappear but it didn't. It just kept me here, hostage in the peaceful darknss, waiting for the end, waiting for you. This wasn't what I had expected, no this was different. But then what had I expected? I knew it was irrational to believe death was what everyone told me it was, because no one had ever really experienced it and lived to tell the tale. But their faint ideas about death and what came after at least gave me a picture of what came next, something I could wrap my head around, something that gave me hope I would see you again. So this is what I did. I waited for you, or at least some version of you to come and whisk me away with you. I didn't know if you would bring me to a fluffy cloud, a fiery hell, or to a island with rainbow colored unicorns, but I didn't really care. As long as you were with me, we could be underneath the sea and I would still cherish every moment I could spend with you, whether it be a single second or eternity.

I could hear humming. That was the first thing I noticed when the blackness faded away once more. Deep baritone humming. It had to be a dream lingering, you were dead, the constant reminder of which made me shudder. If I had learned anything from my suicide, it was that death was illusive and a cruel trick of fate. Everyone had made death seem so easy, so common place. And yet here I am actively trying to die and I am being pulled back to life at every turn. Why did my body want to stay when my soul was so ready to leave? What was holding me in this life?

"John?" A far away voice called to me. "John? Can you hear me?" The man called again.

"Of course I can hear you, I am dead not deaf." I called back as loudly as I could, which turned out to be inaudibly quiet and probably only in my own mind.

"John?" He called again. Why wouldn't they leave me alone? There was nothing left I could offer them. Even when I was alive I had nothing to give. I had been in the flat since you died, only leaving once or twice a month when I absolutely had to, but for the most part I could get on like that. Now I was done, I was lonely without you, so lonely it made my heart ache. I knew I would never find anyone else. You were it for me. The one. And the flat was an extension of you, your dark brooding nature, but it was home, and it made me feel like you would come bursting in the door at any moment, telling me about some idiot cabbie or about some new case you were working, even if you never would.

When they told me you were dead, I couldn't believe it. I had watched you fall and yet I still couldn't believe it. It wasn't shock, it was that I didn't believe death could catch you, the Great Sherlock Holmes. It was impossible for you to die, you had cheated death a thousand times, why would this time be any different? For weeks I thought you would come back. I waited in the flat, expecting you to come home. I would tell myself, any day now, he will be back. I even made two cups of tea, because I never knew when you would stroll back into the flat. After three months, I stopped making you tea. After six months I stopped talking about you like you were coming home. And after ten months, I stopped believing you were alive, that was when I started to hate you.

The brightness flashed over me again, making me see stars. It was too harsh, as if I had been looking at the sun for too long. The brightness faded and left your image in front of me. Your dark curls, too long, falling in front of your eyes. Too skinny as usual, your pale skin seeming to fall from your bones. You looked tired, not that you ever slept much, but the bags under your eyes seemed to say you were sleeping less than usual. You looked worn, as if time had aged you, but that's not how it worked, you didn't age in death.

"Sherlock?" I said, trying to get my mouth to work. It seemed sluggish, making my speech slurred, ruining the beauty of your name.

"I'm here, John." You said, your voice ringing around me.

My head felt fuzzy as if it was clouded with static. My thoughts were being broken into pieces and then crushed into dust. I couldn't think. I couldn't feel. The static moved under my skin, bubbling as it moved down my arms and legs. It wasn't painful, it was awakening. It was like the moments after sleep but before waking, when nothing was clear and everything was foggy. I moved my hand trying to touch you, but I could barely get it to twitch. You lifted my hand, kissing my fingers. Your touch felt so real. But this wasn't you, this was my imagination, holding onto you with whatever I could.

"Stay." I mumbled, gripping you with all my strength.

"I will." You said.

When I open my eyes, I am in a white room. There are yellow flowers sitting in the far corner. I lay still, covered by two thin blankets, even then I am still cold. Though the room was quite, I can hear buzzing and beeping outside. I recognized this place, it was busier, busier than it should be. This was Bart's, my hospital.

Disappointment fogged my mind as I realized I had failed and what this would mean. It would mean therapists, antidepressants, suicide watches, maybe a psych ward or two. It would mean I would have to wait before trying again. I didn't want to wait, I had waited long enough. I was done waiting. I was sick of pretending and imagining you were here. I was sick of having conversations with a wall. I was sick of being without you.

I could hear someone open the door to my room, shutting it quietly as if not to wake me. I rolled so they would greet my back. I didn't want to see anyone, I didn't want anyone telling me I was wrong.

"John?" He said. It was Greg. After you died, he was there for me, he brought me things when I asked. He supported me. But I didn't need supporting, I was delusional, I needed a rude awakening. Someone to shake me until I believed you were gone. But no one knew I held out hope, they thought I was coping, becoming a recluse but coping. It was all just a front though, all a mask he put on so they would leave me alone.

"John? They told me you were awake." Greg says, moving to put his hand on my back. I flinch at his touch, so unused to human contact, really contact of any type.

"Leave me alone." I spit.

"Why didn't you tell me? I could have helped you." He says, his voice cracked.

"I don't need help!" I say forcefully as I sat up. The sudden movement making the room spin.

He looks at me, sadness in his eyes. "Yes, you do."

"No. I am fine, I know what I am doing!" I yell.

"So you know you almost died then!?" He yells back.

"That was the point!" I scream, and even I can hear the sorrow in my voice.

He rubs his forehead as he takes a deep breath. "He is gone John. Sherlock is dead. But if he were here, do you know what he would say?"

"He would understand. Of all people he would understand." I say. He killed himself, so why can't I do the same?

"No, he would call you an idiot." He says. I know he is right. Sherlock was a hypocritical arse most of the time.

Tears are rolling down my cheeks, even at the thought of you. What would you think of me? Trying to follow your steps to the end? Would you think me ridiculous for trying?

"I'm not here to upset you. I came here to be with you. Molly and Mrs. Hudson are outside. We all came to...help." He pauses as if there was more to be said, but then he has let the silence linger too long. "We don't want you to be alone, John."


End file.
